


Teeth

by Funkspiel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Blood & Wine Alternative Ending, Coming In Pants, Geralt enjoys not being the strongest of the three in bed, M/M, Manhandling, Vampire Sex, Vampire/Witcher 0T3, consent kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23570929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: “There are times I curse the trials for not making you invulnerable, Geralt,” Regis said, straddling Geralt’s lap like a lanky cat. Geralt peeked through hooded eyes, overwhelmed by Regis’ hands on his hips and Dettlaff’s curled around his ribs from behind. The higher vampire’s pupils were blown wide as Regis watched Dettlaff lap at the new set of impressions his teeth had left in the witcher’s shoulder – just this shy of breaking skin, angry and pinkened and puffy. “But it is times like this that I’m grateful for it just as well.”“We vampires heal too quickly to share such luxuries with one another,” Dettlaff said, his voice like the roar of the ocean over sand; level, consistent and lulling. Geralt pressed his head back against the vampire’s shoulder and shivered in his grasp, eyes on Regis all the while.aka - vampires heal too fast for hickies. good thing they've got geralt.
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 15
Kudos: 280
Collections: Best Geralt, Regis Rocks





	Teeth

“There are times I curse the trials for not making you invulnerable, Geralt,” Regis said, straddling Geralt’s lap like a lanky cat. Geralt peeked through hooded eyes, overwhelmed by Regis’ hands on his hips and Dettlaff’s curled around his ribs from behind. The higher vampire’s pupils were blown wide as Regis watched Dettlaff lap at the new set of impressions his teeth had left in the witcher’s shoulder – just this shy of breaking skin, angry and pinkened and puffy. “But it is times like this that I’m grateful for it just as well.”

Geralt opened his mouth for a witty retort, only for the words to crumble into a groan when Dettlaff reaffixed his teeth to those very same impressions – light enough only for Geralt to feel them against his skin – and sucked. Geralt’s toes curled. He hissed in a heady breath, sharp and stuttering in his lungs and against the tight band of Dettlaff’s arms around his chest. Secure in the arms of a creature that could suck him dry, but wouldn’t, he had no doubt of that. But it was the knowledge, the understanding of that risk, that made his erection throb in his trousers and up against the pert curve Regis’ scrawny ass.

His hands scrabbled for an anchor. One found Dettlaff’s forearm – not to pry away, but merely to cling to – and the other found Regis’ thigh.

A thin glossy trail connected Dettlaff’s bottom lip to Geralt’s shoulder when finally he pulled away, and Geralt felt his very body moved by the intensity of the vampire’s purring – tangible and rumbling against his back where he was held close to the vampire’s chest.

“We vampires heal too quickly to share such luxuries with one another,” Dettlaff said, his voice like the roar of the ocean over sand; level, consistent and lulling. Geralt pressed his head back against the vampire’s shoulder and shivered in his grasp, eyes on Regis all the while.

“Again,” Regis whispered, eyes fixated on the canvas of Geralt’s shoulder as thought Dettlaff were painting a masterpiece into his skin. In all his years, Geralt had been called many things – freak, monster, ugly, old. He had also been called handsome by those who bothered to look past the word ‘witcher’. He had never really lamented his looks or thought himself unattractive. Yennefer had not made her attraction secret, nor Tris. He knew, in his own way, he was handsome. But never had a man or woman looked at him as Regis was in that moment and made him feel so wanted, so beautiful. As though he were a fragile, fleeting thing. He nearly didn’t know how to react – and there was no way to hide, not when Dettlaff was doing his damnedest to keep him on display.

Teeth set into his shoulder again, overlapping the previous mark and sending an unhurried jolt down to Geralt’s crotch when pleasure mixed with the soreness of the previous bite – made all that much more sensitive by the sucking. Dettlaff gripped him tightly; the points of his fangs, even whilst retracted, pressed firmly enough so that Geralt could not mistake it for any human mouth upon his shoulder. Could not ignore the fact that it was a vampire that had him in their fangs and at their mercy. He gripped Dettlaff tighter. His cock throbbed.

The marks would be faded by morning, the bruises gone by tomorrow night. He knew that both Regis and Dettlaff were aware of it. It was why Dettlaff took his time to suck each bite so thoroughly. Why they overlapped and bit again and overlapped once more. Attentiveness bred results, and given enough effort, even a witcher would need time to heal from such dedication. He wondered how long they could make the marks last.

Geralt wasn’t about to complain. The process was hardly a sacrifice for him.

“Do you intend to make a collar of them?” He joked, unable to stop his tongue, only for pleasure to spear a tight coil in his belly at the way Regis stilled in his lap at that – pupils so black and so wide they appeared nearly inhuman.

“Dettlaff,” Regis croaked, inarticulate in a way that had Geralt harder than simply lying in the arms of two vampires had any right to make him. They had not even touched his cock yet, had not even freed it from his trousers. They were trying to unmake him with nothing but their teeth and their tongues and the unabashed focus of their attraction toward him, their possessiveness – and damn if it wasn’t working far more effectively than Geralt thought it might. Witcher potions and the trials had left their mark on him. While he was by no means unable to perform, he was no easy lay either. Or so he thought.

“Already ahead of you,” Dettlaff answered against Geralt’s skin.

Behind him, he felt Dettlaff’s attention change from heading toward the curve of his shoulder and instead peppered in toward the thick column of his neck. Gods above, they were going to do it. They were going to leave a ring of puffy, bruised claiming bites around his neck like a crown of flowers. 

“Shit,” he breathed in a whispery inhale. His eyes flickered back to Regis when the man brushed a cool thumb over his bottom lip.

“You do not even know the treat you’ve given us,” Regis said, as though Geralt were some virgin offering his purity rather than a grizzled witcher baring his neck to his lovers. Dettlaff’s hands held him tighter, the points of faint claws digging into the tension of his skin and leaving pink little dimples behind.

He couldn’t fathom it. Just as he _knew_ vampires desired blood and yet did not _understand_ the calling, he knew Regis was right. Geralt could never possibly know the implication of allowing them this luxury, the weight of it. But he could guess. He knew the meaning of pack to them. He had seen the consequences of it firsthand. The concept of possession, the intimacy of bonds, what it meant to vow one’s self to another for eternity. It was the sort of promise that once drove the very man behind him to the brink when the person he had elected to share that bond with had betrayed him. It had driven him to a state of self-destruction so vast, there could be no arguing that a promise among vampires wasn’t defined as simply as humans knew it.

If the collapse of bonds could drive a man to insanity, he could only imagine how heady it must be to leave marks upon their mates. To claim them with their teeth and leave the puffy imprints behind for all to see so that no one could mistake the promise they had made. Geralt felt a sudden pang of pity that his lovers had been denied this amongst each other. That Regis could not bear the unique ring of Dettlaff’s teeth upon his skin and that Dettlaff in turn could not wear Regis’ like a brand upon his flesh. It was a novelty so common to humans, Geralt had never once stopped to imagine the implication it might hold among people who healed too quickly to enjoy it.

“If you like it so much, you’re going to have to reapply them tomorrow night,” Geralt said, breath hitching once when the implication happened to drive Dettlaff’s teeth in deeper with a little growl that spoke volumes to the wildness the trials had instilled in the witcher. “I may not be a vampire, but I do heal quickly.”

Regis leaned in, and what Geralt thought to be a chaste kiss turned into a wicked little nip – and oh, how like Regis that was, his kiss just like his words. Clever and eloquent, soft and steady, yet hiding a sharp playfulness that teased its edges if one bothered to look for it. Geralt licked that smarting little spot on his bottom lip where Regis had pinched it with his fangs – blood so close to the surface and yet his flesh whole and unbroken.

“Be careful of what invitations you extend to vampires, Geralt,” Regis said, his smile touched with a hunger that made Geralt’s hips buck impatiently up into the cage of Regis’ straddle. The lithe man just rolled with it, fluid in a way mortal men could rarely match. “We take such things quite seriously.”

It was a joke, of course. Geralt was far too learned in the way of vampires – even with the customs of higher vampires as guarded as they were – to think for a moment that the wives’ tales about vampires and invitations were real. But every tale had a seed of truth. Consent was a heady thing. The blood of a willing party was far more delectable and potent than that of a fearful, dying host. An invitation of consent was a promise of many delightful, pleasurable things ahead. And while there would be no blood to be had – at least not in front of Regis – the intent and implication lingered all the same.

“You’re already in my home, bit too late for that,” Geralt said, a little sucking gasp breaking his train of thought when Dettlaff moved to the back of his neck. He shivered as Regis reached to brush Geralt’s hair to the side for his lover, lest Dettlaff have to break the iron ring of his arms around Geralt’s chest – something the man seemed loathe to do. As though Geralt might disappear…

The witcher shivered as Dettlaff peppered the sensitive skin of his nape, then nipped at his leisure before finally sinking his teeth in with a groan. A groan that Geralt found himself matching, his lungs lulled into the sound by the way it rumbled in Dettlaff’s chest against his back.

Regis licked his smarting lip and said in a purring hush, “There is great power in consent, Geralt.”

Geralt took the initiative to lean forward against the tight band of Dettlaff’s grip and kiss Regis in the way of witchers – hot and searing, blunt and intent – and grinned against cool lips when it had its intended effect of surprising the confident man.

“I trust you,” Geralt said, amber swallowed by black pupils, leaving nothing but a thin ring behind.

It was not what Regis had expected, not in vein with the witty comebacks, the playful acts of deliberate distraction or the sultry teasing. It was raw and honest. It was everything either vampire had been too modest to ask for, yet Geralt had seen them dancing around the question for weeks now.

“Geralt,” Regis said, voice reduced to a heady, untamed rumble. The vampire bore down on his lap, hips driving his ass down on Geralt’s erection to make the man gasp, head lolling back quite on instinct, giving Regis the window of opportunity he sought to latch onto the pale skin of Geralt’s collarbone.

The witcher whined, head spinning with the gravity of it all. For Regis to bite him, to control his fangs and bare blunt teeth into his flesh, to be so close to blood and yet resist because it was not the high he wanted, _but Geralt_ – the witcher keened and writhed, forced still for his own safety by Dettlaff’s hands.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, the end bleeding into a sound he’d rather not put a name to for his own sake as Regis mouthed and teased at his throat and rolled his hips with practiced ease against his crotch. Dettlaff was hard behind him, his cock an iron brand against his ass and lower back. With Regis’ mouth occupied, Dettlaff instead relinquished his teeth from Geralt’s flesh – now at his other shoulder – and pecked a kiss onto the mark left behind.

“Do you know how long he pined for you, little wolf?”

Geralt’s nails dug into Dettlaff’s forearm, into the thin column of Regis’ rocking thigh. He shifted his grip, dug in again, but his nails left no crescents in Dettlaff’s skin.

“F-fuck,” was all Geralt could manage, one eye squinting shut, the other barely peeking. Dettlaff nosed against the corner of the witcher’s jaw and the silky fall of white hair, inhaling in a way humans simply did not do – not to breathe, but to scent. To both know Geralt’s and leave his own behind. That had Geralt throbbing. To be owned by teeth and scent. He rocked up into Regis as best he could, but Dettlaff’s hands moved from his chest to his waist, holding him with the sort of ease that should have made a witcher worried – and yet just left Geralt moaning.

Regis bit him a little harder, as though to confirm to himself that it was in fact Geralt’s skin beneath his teeth, his collarbone in his mouth. The witcher bit his own lip, heat burning high in the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose, and felt the soreness of Regis’ nip aching pleasantly in his bottom lip like an echo, throbbing with his pulse.

“When I remade him from nothing but a smear of blood, I took that onto myself, Geralt,” Dettlaff whispered against the buzzing skin of one of his bites. “I felt it, all of it. Every wayward glance you didn’t catch. Every wound he feared might end you, every sacrifice. Years of companionship and longing, stitched into the very fabric of my being as though I too had lived and longed for you. I have never known love such as this.”

Geralt shivered as though he might come apart at the seams. He knew the extent of Dettlaff’s love. He had seen it almost raze a city to the ground. He knew from Regis’ mouth itself that Dettlaff felt more deeply than any being Regis had ever known. To hear from him that Regis’ love had exposed every feeling Dettlaff had ever known before to be shallow twisted something fiercely in Geralt’s chest. To be loved so intensely, so beyond the limits of human comprehension – he took in a shuddering breath, and with an aborted little wiggle of his hips that Dettlaff clenched to stillness, he wheezed, “I can't-"

He was going to come. He was _close._ His ears burned hotter, his flush reaching down to the flesh that Regis was currently marking with pearly teeth, making that bruised skin darker. He was going to come from nothing but teeth and words of confession and the knowledge that everything these two immortal men revealed to him this night was so much more than the face value that he could ever comprehend. He was going to come with nothing touching his cock but his own trousers and the grind of Regis’ ass against him. From nothing but the iron hold of Dettlaff’s hands and the understanding that he, a mere man, had given them something vampires could not offer one another.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His hands scrabbled for purchase against both of them, either of them, as Regis rocked atop him and Dettlaff murmured blunt affirmations of their love for him against his skin as though the words might tattoo themselves into the indents of the bites they left behind and leave him with a collar he may never remove, never forget.

“I couldn’t fathom those memories until I met you,” Dettlaff said, licking one of the bites, making Geralt writhe. “You could have asked him anything, he would have done it for you. You did not even know the power you had.”

“I didn’t—I never wanted—I _wouldn’t_ —“ he tried to speak, each word plucked from his lungs between the clench of Regis’ teeth and the rocking of his hips and the friction of his pants against his cock.

“You’d never take advantage, I know,” Dettlaff said into the shell of his ear. “You spared me. I heard of what you’ve done for your own pack. The lengths you’ve gone to for your chosen daughter, your Cirilla. A man has never understood us as you do. What it is to have a pack you choose. I knew I could love you when you had Regis spare me, not because you let me live, but because you did not ask him to choose between his love for you and his pack or his kin. It would have torn him asunder, Geralt, and yet knowing that, he would have done it had you asked. Instead you stayed his hand. You spared us both.”

Geralt’s own hands moved to the wrists that held his hips still, squeezing and helpless. When next he spoke, Dettlaff’s words were softer, nearly missed beneath the harsh panting of Geralt’s stuttered breathing.

“I knew I loved you this morning when I woke. You burrowed further into me, seeking lost heat when Regis stood to stretch his legs. A witcher made soft in the arms of two vampires. Aware of all that we do, all that we’re capable of, and yet sleeping between us. Your heart was so slow, so unhurried. Even Rhena, openminded as she was, had never been truly at ease with me. I had never known I could expect more, _have more_ , until that moment.”

Geralt remembered the vial Regis had him drink. The memories he had shared with Dettlaff – the way he had taken to the man at the shoeshine merely because of his friendliness. How Syanna had captivated him merely because she had not shied away. Attracted so dangerously to acceptance in a world that feared his kind, unable to go home. Spurned time and again for the attempts he had made, however fumbling. Geralt knew what it was to long for acceptance. He had never thought he would be the one to provide a balm to that wound for someone else.

He reached up one hand to cup the back of Dettlaff’s neck, fingers entwined with the fine, short locks at his nape. He spread himself open between them, exposing his vulnerable belly, his neck.

“I trust you,” Geralt repeated, now to Dettlaff. He felt a ripple go through the man behind him. Felt fangs extend against his skin but not pierce. Dettlaff’s breath huffed against his throat in heavy gulps even as the man had no need to breathe. A mimicry of humanity, a habit they could pull on and take off like a coat. All because of Geralt’s words. Regis peeled his teeth away from Geralt’s skin as at last the final bite was laid. His neck was a buzzing, hot, agitated mess of nerve endings and puffy, saliva-slick skin. A bright, pink halo that shone against the milky paleness of his throat and hair. Regis traced the markings with a finger, then a thumb, and Geralt twisted in Dettlaff’s grip, each indent so sensitive it felt like static against his skin.

“You are _beautiful_ , wolf,” Regis said, awed and hushed as he took in the collar he and Dettlaff had pressed into Geralt’s very flesh. Admiring the way it lingered. “And to think you’re ours. Extraordinary.”

Geralt’s breath hitched. And the vampires, damn them, caught it. Dettlaff’s teeth retracted. He smiled against the skin of the witcher's shoulder.

“Ours,” Dettlaff agreed, hands squeezing Geralt’s hips, skin pinkening beneath his fingers.

“Our witcher,” Regis murmured, laving a hot tongue across aching bites. Suckling gently.

“Our little wolf,” Dettlaff said, and it still astonished Geralt that anyone could make him feel little, and yet sandwiched between two immortals, he felt exactly that. It stoked a fire in his gut. Made his balls tighten and pull close. To know they could lift him easily when it took two mortal men just to drag him. To be shorter than them both when no man usually ever came close. He didn’t think he’d enjoy it as much as he did – but it sent a jolt to his cock every time they reminded him, every time he noticed again the small difference in their height, every time they lifted him or manhandled him. He bit his lip to swallow the sound it inspired in him. Hips held still by Dettlaff as Regis ground into him, drove him closer and closer to handless climax within his own breeches. He sucked in a breath and knew he had no chance. Knew that all along, the two of them had every intention of getting him to ruin his own trousers in their laps.

“And everyone will know it too, come morning. They’ll see your lovely throat and there will be no doubt that the white wolf of Kaer Morhen no longer wanders alone.”

His hips hitched helplessly in Dettlaff’s hands. The man pressed a kiss behind his ear apologetically.

“Please,” Geralt finally gasped when it became obvious that neither vampire planned to take pity on his grunted attempts to ask without asking. “ _Please_.”

“Show us that you’re ours, Geralt,” Regis said against his lips, breathed into his mouth, “Come for us.”

He hadn’t come in his own trousers for decades. Not since he had been a young lad in training, not since before the trials. Yet here and now, well along in years, he writhed between the hard bodies of two immortals and lost control within his own trousers. His cock arched against the prison of his pants, pressing against Regis’ ass as the vampire ground down against him, and unloaded. His toes curled. Hit finger nails bit deeper into his lovers. Orgasm thundered in his chest with a rolling, rumbling moan. He felt that wetness seep into the crotch of his breeches. Wondered if Regis could feel it too.

He melted back into Dettlaff, eyes closed and head resting against the vampire’s shoulder. Felt two mouths kiss the many, many bites they had buried into his throat. Dettlaff’s hands pet his belly, traced a thumb down over the trial of fine hairs that led to the hem of his trousers. Finally, blessedly, Regis’ hips stilled above him. A cool hand brushed against one pectoral, a nail snagging only once against a nipple – only for Regis to chuckle apologetically at Geralt’s resulting whine.

“Were you serious, Geralt?” Regis asked curiously as he traced that puffy ring of bites again, “About reapplying?”

There was more than just a question there. It was more than simple idle curiosity. Beneath the eloquence and the satisfied, unhurried tone, there was a plea. One echoed in the tightening of Dettlaff’s remaining hand upon his waist.

“However often you need,” Geralt said, loose and satiated in the cradle of Dettlaff’s body. “Speaking of need…”

He glanced down at the hard-on tenting Regis’ breeches. All too aware of Dettlaff’s hot length pressing against his back.

“The night is young,” Dettlaff said, pulling his hair aside to kiss the knob of his spine.

“Indeed,” Regis agreed, working at his belt, “We fully intend to put your witcherly stamina to the test, Geralt. We’re far from done.”

Geralt’s cock twitched against his ruined trousers.

The next morning, Geralt woke late to an empty bed. No doubt his restless bedmates had chosen to let him sleep however long his body had felt the need to.

He chose to wear a loose collared shirt down to breakfast. The shirt didn’t last long.


End file.
